W&^^XAA- 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Marvin  Maclean 


University  of  California 


m^m^^ffm^ 


r  ^"^^  ^VA^--"--  •      ;-:  -. 

s^^i^i^fti^ii^^^s® 

ippliiiffliSsi^^^^ 

iiiiiiiii^ 


A-^.^'x 


727 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


BY 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON : 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS 
.   1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

HENRY  WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE -..  .7 

.PALINGENESIS          .        ..  •     .        .        .  .        .         10 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  CLOUD     .        .        ...        .        .        .     16 

HAWTHORNE  .        .        ;       ..       '.        .        ,        .        .        20 
CHRISTMAS-BELLS  .     .  .        .        .        .        .        .24 

KAMBALU 27 

THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY       .....     35 
THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN      .        .        .        ...        .        .        41 

KILLED  AT  THE  FORD -45 

GIOTTO'S  TOWER     .  .        .  •  •  -  -    -.        .        .        .         49 

TO-MORROW        .        .        .      , .        .     '    .        .        .        -51 

DlVINA   COMMEDIA  .  ...  .  .  .  .  53 

NOEL .        .         .65 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


I.  THE  FLOWER-DE-LUCE     .     •  .       .       .       .    Frontispiece 

A  rtist,  H.  FENN.     Engraver,  A.  V.  S.  ANTHONY. 

II.   PALINGENESIS         .        .-  .     .        .        .        .        .     page  10 

Artist,  G.  PERKINS.     Engraver,  A.  V.  S.  ANTHONY. 

III.  KAMBALU       .        .        . 27 

Artist,  S.  EYTINGE,  JR.     Engraver,  A.  V.  S.  ANTHONY. 

IV.  KILLED  AT  THE  FORD  .    •    .        .        .        •      ,.-        -45 

Artist,  W.  WAUD.     Engraver,  A.  V.  S.  ANTHONY. 

V.  GIOTTO'S  TOWER  .       .       .       .       :       .       .       .49 

Artist,  S.  COLMAN,  JR.     Engraver,  A.  V.  S.  ANTHONY. 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

T3EAUTIFUL  lily,  dwelling  by  still  rivers, 

Or  solitary  mere, 
Or  where  the  sluggish  meadow-brook  delivers 

Its  waters  to  the  weir! 

Thou  laughest  at  the  mill,  the  whirr  and  worry 

Of  spindle  and  of  loom, 
And  the  great  wheel  that  toils  amid  the  hurry 

And  rushing  of  the  flume. 


8  Flower-de-Luce. 

Born  to  the  purple,  born  to  joy  and  pleasance, 
Thou  dost  not  toil  nor  spin, 

But  makest  glad  and  radiant  with  thy  presence 
The  meadow  and  the  lin. 

The  wind  blows,  and  uplifts  thy  drooping  banner, 
And  round  thee  throng  and  run 

The  rushes,  the  green  yeomen  of  thy  manor, 
The  outlaws  of  the  sun. 

The  burnished  dragon-fly  is  thine  attendant, 

And  tilts  against  the  field, 
And  down  the  listed  sunbeam  rides  resplendent 

With  steel-blue  mail  and  shield. 


Flower-de-Luce.       <•* 

Thou  art  the  Iris,  fair  among  the  fairest, 

Who,  armed  with  golden  rod 
And  winged  with  the  celestial  azure,  bearest 


The  message  of  some  God. 


Thou  art  the  Muse,  who  far  from  crowded  cities 
Hauntest  the  sylvan  streams, 

Playing  on  pipes  of  reed  the  artless  ditties 
That  come  to  us  as  dreams. 

O  flower-de-luce,  bloom  on,  and  let  the  river 

Linger  to  kiss  thy  feet ! 
O  flower  of  song,  bloom  on,  and  make  forever 

The  world  more  fair  and  sweet 


PALINGENESIS. 

T    LAY  upon  the  headland-height,  and  listened 
To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 

In  caverns  under  me, 
And  watched  the  waves,  that  tossed  and  fled  and 

glistened, 

Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 
Melted  away  in  mist. 


Palingenesis.  1 1 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  from  sleep,  I  started  ; 
For  round  about  me  all  the  sunny  capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 
Of  those  whom  I  had  known  in  days  departed, 
Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which  gleams 

On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 


A  moment  only,  and  the  light  and  glory 
Faded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 

Stood  lonely  as  before ; 
And  the  wild  roses  of  the  promontory 
Around  me  shuddered  in  the  wind,  and  shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 


1 2  Palingenesis. 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  embers 
Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 

And  cunning  alchemists 

Could  recreate  the  rose  with  all  its  members 
From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the  bloom, 

Without  the  lost  perfume. 

Ah  me  !  what  wonder-working,  occult  science 
Can  from  the  ashes  in  our  hearts  once  more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore  ? 
What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 
To  time  and  change,  and  for  a  single  hour 

Renew  this  phantom-flower  ? 


Palingenesis.  1 3 

"O,    give    me    back,"    I    cried,    "the    vanished 

splendors, 
The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant  strife, 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 
Bounds  o'er  its  rocky  channel,  and  surrenders 
The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 

Into  the  unknown  deep ! " 

* 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a  lamentation, 
Like  some  old  prophet  wailing,  and  it  said, 

"  Alas  !  thy  youth  is  dead  ! 

It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no  pulsation ; 
In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 

It  lies  forever  cold  ! " 


14  Palingenesis. 

Then  said  I,  "  From  its  consecrated  cerements 
I  will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain ; 

But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  endearments, 
Go  on  my  way,  like  one  who  looks  before, 

And  turns  to  weep  no  more." 

Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  plantations 
Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the  glow 

Of  sunsets  burning  low ; 

Beneath  what  midnight  skies,  whose  constellations 
Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 

This  world  and  the  unseen  ! 


Palingenesis.  1 5 

Amid  what  friendly  greetings  and  caresses, 

What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet  not  mine, 

•* 

What  bowers  of  rest  divine  ; 
To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses, 
What  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and  loss, 

The  bearing  of  what  cross  ! 

I  do  not  know  ;  nor  will  I  vainly  question 
Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which  hold 

The  story  still  untold, 
But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and  good  heed, 

Until  "The  End"  I  read. 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    CLOUD. 

3  URN,  O  evening  hearth,  and  waken 
Pleasant  visions,  as  of  old  ! 

Though  the  house  by  winds  be  shaken, 
Safe  I  keep  this  room  of  gold  ! 

Ah,  no  longer  wizard  Fancy 

Builds  her  castles  in  the  air, 

Luring  me  by  necromancy 

Up  the  never-ending  stair! 


The  Bridge  of  Cloud.  17 

But,  instead,  she  builds  me  bridges 

Over  many  a  dark  ravine, 
Where  beneath  the  gusty  ridges 

Cataracts  dash  and  roar  unseen. 

And  I  cross  them,  little  heeding 
Blast  of  wind  or  torrent's  roar, 

As  I  follow  the  receding 

Footsteps  that  have  gone  before. 

Naught  avails  the  imploring  gesture, 
Naught  avails  the  cry  of  pain ! 

When  I  touch  the  flying  vesture, 
'T  is  the  gray  robe  of  the  rain. 


1 8  The  Bridge  of  Cloud. 

Baffled  I  return,  and,  leaning 
O'er  the  parapets  of  cloud, 

Watch  the  mist  that  intervening 
Wraps  the  valley  in  its  shroud. 

And  the  sounds  of  life  ascending 
Faintly,  vaguely,  meet  the  ear, 

Murmur  of  bells  and  voices  blending 
WTith  the  rush  of  waters  near. 

Well  I  know  what  there  lies  hidden, 
Every  tower  and  town  and  farm, 

And  again  the  land  forbidden 

Reassumes  its  vanished  charm. 


The  Bridge  of  Cloitd.  19 

Well  I  know  the  secret  places, 

And  the  nests  in  hedge  and  tree  ; 

At  what  doors  are  friendly  faces, 

In  what  hearts  are  thoughts  of  me. 

Through  the  mist  and  darkness  sinking, 
Blown  by  wind  and  beaten  by  shower, 

Down  I  fling  the  thought  I  'm  thinking, 
Down  I  toss  this  Alpine  flower. 


HAWTHORNE. 

MAY  23,  1864. 

T  T  OW  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase  away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple-blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms, 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 


Hawthorne.  2 1 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old  manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed  : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed  strange  : 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to  change 

Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute  ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 


22  Hawthorne. 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse,  and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines ; 
I  only  see  —  a  dream  within  a  dream  — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 


Hawthorne.  23 

Ah  !  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic  power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain ! 


CHRISTMAS     BELLS. 

T    HEARD  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 
And  wild  and  sweet 
The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 


Christmas  Bells.  25 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  way, 

The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chime, 

A  chant  sublime 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South, 

And  with  the  sound 

The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  hearthstones  of  a  continent, 


26  Christmas  Bells. 

And  made  forlorn 
The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

And  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head ; 
"  There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said  ; 

"For  hate  is  strong, 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! " 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep 
"  God  is  not  dead  ;  nor  doth  he  sleep ! 

The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 
With  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! " 


KAMBALU. 

T  NTO  the  city  of  Kambalu, 
By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan, 
At  the  head  of  his  dusty  caravan, 
Laden  with  treasure  from  realms  afar, 
Baldacca  and  Kelat  and  Kandahar, 
Rode  the  great  captain  Alau. 

The  Khan  from  his  palace-window  gazed, 
And  saw  in  the  thronging  street  beneath, 


28  Kambalu. 

« 

In  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  that  blazed, 
Through    the    clouds    of  dust    by    the    caravan 

raised, 

The  flash  of  harness  and  jewelled  sheath, 
And  the  shining  scymitars  of  the  guard, 
And  the  weary  camels  that  bared  their  teeth, 
As   they   passed   and   passed  through  the  gates 

unbarred 
Into  the  shade  of  the  palace-yard. 

Thus  into  the  city  of  Kambalu 

Rode  the  great  captain  Alau  ; 

And  he  stood  before  the  Khan,  and  said  : 

"  The  enemies  of  my  lord  are  dead ; 


Kambalu.  29 

All  the  Kalifs  of  all  the  West 

Bow  and  obey  thy  least  behest ; 

The  plains  are  dark  with  the  mulberry-trees, 

The  weavers  are  busy  in  Samarcand, 

The  miners  are  sifting  the  golden  sand, 

The  divers  plunging  for  pearls  in  the  seas, 

And  peace  and  plenty  are  in  the  land. 

"  Baldacca's  Kalif,  and  he  alone 

Rose  in  revolt  against  thy  throne: 

His  .treasures  are  at  thy  palace-door, 

With  the  swords  and  the  shawls  and  the  jewels  he 

wore  ; 
His  body  is  dust  o'er  the  desert  blown. 


M 

30  Kambalu. 


"A  mile  outside  of  Baldacca's  gate 
I  left  my  forces  to  lie  in  wait, 
Concealed  by  forests  and  hillocks  of  sand, 
And  forward  dashed  with  a  handful  of  men 
To  lure  the  old  tiger  from  his  den 
Into  the  ambush  I  had  planned. 
Ere  we  reached  the  town  the  alarm  was  spread, 
For  we  heard  the  sound  of  gongs  from  within ; 
And  with  clash  *of  cymbals  and  warlike  din 
The  gates  swung  wide  ;  and  we  turned  and  fled, 
And  the  garrison  sallied  forth  and  pursued, 
With  the  gray  old  Kalif  at  their  head, 
And  above  them  the  banner  of  Mohammed: 
So  we  snared  them  all,  and  the  town  was  subdued. 


Kambalu.  3 1 

"As  in  at  the  gate  we  rode,  behold, 
A  tower  that  was  called  the  Tower  of  Gold  ! 
For  there  the  Kalif  had  hidden  his  wealth, 
Heaped  and  hoarded  and  piled  on  high, 
Like  sacks  of  wheat  in  a  granary ; 
And  thither  the  miser  crept  by  stealth 
To  feel  of  the  gold  that  gave  him  health, 
And  to  gaze  and  gloat  with  his  hungry  eye 
On   jewels    that    gleamed    like    a    glow-worm's 

spark, 
Or  the  eyes  of  a  panther  in  the  dark. 

"I  said  to  the  Kalif:    'Thou  art  old, 
Thou  hast  no  need  of  so  much  gold. 


32  Kambalu. 

Thoit  shouldst  not  have  heaped  and  hidden  it  here, 
Till  the  breath  of  battle  was  hot  and  near, 
But  have  sown  through  the  land  these  useless  hoards 
To  spring  into  shining  blades  of  swords, 
And  keep  thine  honor  sweet  and  clear. 
These  grains  of  gold  are  not  grains  of  wheat ; 
These  bars  of  silver  thou  canst  not  eat ; 
These  jewels  and  pearls  and  precious  stones 
Cannot  cure  the  aches  in  thy  bones, 
Nor  keep  the  feet  of  Death  one  hour 
From  climbing  the  stairways  of  thy  tower ! ' 

"Then  into  his  dungeon  I  locked  the  drone, 
And  left  him  to  feed  there  all  alone 


Kambalu.  33 

In  the  honey-cells  of  his  golden  hive : 
Never  a  prayer  nor  a  cry  nor  a  groan 
Was  heard  from  those  massive  walls  of  stone, 
Nor  again  was  the  Kalif  seen  alive  ! 

j 
"When  at  last  we  unlocked  the  door, 

We  found  him  dead  upon  the  floor ; 

The    rings     had     dropped     from    his    withered 

hands, 

His  teeth  were  like  bones  in  the  desert  sands  ; 
Still  clutching  his  treasure  he  had  died  ; 
And  as  he  lay  there,  he  appeared 
A  statue  of  gold  with  a  silver  beard, 
His  arms  outstretched  as  if  crucified." 


34  Kambalu. 

This  is  the  story,  strange  and  true, 
That  the  great  captain  Alau 
Told  to  his  brother  the  Tartar  Khan, 
When  he  rode  that  day  into  Kambalu 
By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan. 


THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY. 

X 

OEE,  the  fire  is  sinking  low, 
Dusky  red  the  embers  glow* 

While  above  them  still  I  cower, 
While  a  moment  more  I  linger, 
Though  the  clock,  with  lifted  finger, 

Points  beyond  the  midnight  hour. 


36  The  Wind  over  the  Chimney. 

Sings  the  blackened  log  a  tune 
Learned  in  some  forgotten  June 

From  a  school-boy  at  his  play, 
When  they  both  were  young  together, 
Heart  of  youth  and  summer  weather 

Making  all  their  holiday. 

And  the  night-wind  rising,  hark ! 
How  above  there  in  the  dark, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow, 
Ever  wilder,  fiercer,  grander, 
Like  the  trumpets  of  Iskander, 

All  the  noisy  chimneys  blow ! 


The  Wind  over  the  Chimney.  37 

Every  quivering  tongue  of  flame 
Seems  to  murmur  some  great  name, 

Seems  to  say  to  me,  "  Aspire  ! " 
But  the  night-wind  answers,  "  Hollow 
Are  the  visions  that  you  follow, 

Into  darkness  sinks  your  fire ! " 


Then  the  flicker  of  the  blaze 
Gleams  on  volumes  of  old  days, 

Written  by  masters  of  the  art, 
Loud  through  whose  majestic  pages 
Rolls  the  melody  of  ages, 

Throb  the  harp-strings  of  the  heart. 


38  The  Wind  over  the  Chimney. 

And  again  the  tongues  of  flame 
Start  exulting  and  exclaim  : 

"  These  are  prophets,  bards,  and  seers  ; 
In  the  horoscope  of  nations, 
Like  ascendant  constellations, 

They  control  the  coming  years." 

But  the  night-wind  cries  :   "  Despair  ! 
Those  who  walk  with  feet  of  air 

Leave  no  long-enduring  marks ; 
At  God's  forges  incandescent 
Mighty  hammers  beat  incessant, 

These  are  but  the  flying  sparks. 


The  Wind  over  the  Chimney.  39 

"  Dust  are  all  the  hands  that  wrought ; 
Books  are  sepulchres  of  thought ; 

The  dead  laurels  of  the  dead 
Rustle  for  a  moment  only, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  in  lonely 

Churchyards  at  some  passing  tread." 

Suddenly  the  flame  sinks  down ; 
Sink  the  rumors  of  renown  ; 

And  alone  the  night-wind  drear 
Clamors  louder,  wilder,  vaguer, — 
"  'T  is  the  brand  of  Meleager 

Dying  on  the  hearth-stone  here  ! " 


4O  The  Wind  over  the  Chimney. 

And  I  answer,  —  "Though  it  be, 
Why  should  that  discomfort  me  ? 

No  endeavor  is  in  vain  ; 
Its  reward  is  in  the  doing, 
And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain. 


THE    BELLS    OF    LYNN, 


v  \ 

HEARD   AT   NAHANT. 


S~\   CURFEW  of  the  setting  sun !  O  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 
O    requiem    of    the    dying    day  !      O    Bells    of 

Lynn! 

• 
From   the   dark   belfries   of  yon   cloud-cathedral 

wafted, 

Your  sounds   aerial   seem   to   float,    O    Bells   of 
Lynn! 


42  The  Bells  of  Lynn. 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crimson 

twilight, 
O'er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn  ! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond  the 

headland, 
Listens,   and   leisurely   rows   ashore,   O   Bells  of 

Lynn ! 

$• 
Over    the    shining    sands   the    wandering    cattle 

homeward 

Follow    each    other    at    your   call,    O    Bells    of 
Lynn ! 


The  Bells  of  Lynn.  43 

The  distant  lighthouse  hears,  and  with  his  flaming 

signal 
Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  O  Bells 

of  Lynn ! 

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumultuous 

surges, 
And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  O  Bells 

of  Lynn  ! 

Till    from    the    shuddering  sea,   with   your  wild 

incantations, 

•• 

Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  O    Bells   of 
Lynn ! 


44  The  Bells  of  Lynn. 

And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman  of 

Endor, 
Ye  cry   aloud,   and    then    are    still,    O   Bells   of 

Lynn ! 


KILLED    AT    THE    FORD. 

T  T  E  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 
The  heart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth, 
He,  the  life  and  light  of  us  all, 

Whose  voice  was  blithe  as  a  bugle-call, 

> 
Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  one  consent, 

The  cheer  of  whose  laugh,  and  whose  pleasant 

word, 
Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discontent. 


46  Killed  at  the  Ford. 

Only  last  night,  as  we  rode  along 

Down  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 

To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford, 

Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap, 

He  was  humming  the  words  of  some  old  song  : 

"  Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cap 

And  another  he  bore  at  the  point  of  his  sword." 

Sudden  and  swift  a  whistling  ball 
Came  out  of  a  wood,  arid  the  voice  was  still ; 
Something  I  heard  in 'the  darkness  fall, 
And  for  a  moment  my  blood  grew  chill ; 
I  spake  in  a  whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 
In  a  room  where  some  one  is  lying  dead  ; 
But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  I  said. 


Killed  at  the  Ford.  47 

We  lifted  him  up  to  his  saddle  again, 

And  through  the  mire   and  the  mist  and  the  rain 

Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp, 

And  laid  him  as  if  asleep  on  his  bed  ; 

And  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon's  lamp 

Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 

And  one,  just  over  his  heart,  blood-red  ! 

And  I  saw  in  a  vision  how  far  and  fleet 
That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth, 
Till  it  reached  a  town  in  the  distant  North, 
Till  it  reached  a  house  in  a  sunny  street, 
Till  it  reached  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat 


48  Killed  at  the  Ford. 

Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cry  ; 
And  a  bell  was  tolled  in  that  far-off  town, 
For  one  who  had  passed  from  cross  to  crown, 
And  the  neighbors  wondered  that  she  should  die. 


GIOTTO'S    TOWER. 

T_T  OW  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 

Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 

Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 
And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete ! 


5O  G lottos  Tower. 

In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's  tower, 
The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone,  — 
A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire,  — 

The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire.     . 


TO-MORROW. 

'^  I  ^  IS  late  at  night,  and  in  the  realm  of  sleep 
My  little  lambs  are  folded  like  the  flocks  ; 
From  room  to  room  I  hear  the  wakeful  clocks 
Challenge  the  passing  hour,  like  guards  that 
keep 

Their  solitary  watch  on  tower  and  steep  ; 
Far  off  I  hear  the  crowing  of  the  cocks, 
And  through  the  opening  door  that  time  un- 
locks 
Feel  the  fresh  breathing  of  To-morrow  creep. 


5  2  To-morrow. 

To-morrow  !  the  mysterious,  unknown  guest, 
Who  cries  to  me  :  "  Remember  Barmecide, 
And  tremble  to  be  happy  with  the  rest." 

And  I  make  answer :  "  I  am  satisfied  ; 

I  dare  not  ask  ;  I  know  not  what  is  best ; 
God  hath  already  said  what  shall  betide." 


DIVINA     COMMEDIA. 


DIVINA    COMMEDIA. 

I. 

/^"AFT  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er  ; 

Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 


56  Divina  Commedia. 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 


Divina  Commedia.  57 


H 


II. 

OW  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these 

towers !  •  - 

This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded  sleeves 
Birds  build  their  nests;  while  canopied  with 

leaves 

Parvis  and  portal  bloom  like  trellised  bowers, 
And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of  flowers ! 
But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled  eaves 
Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the   living 

thieves, 
And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers ! 


58  Divina  Commedia. 

Ah !  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 
What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 
What   tenderness,  what  tears,  what  hate  of 
wrong, 

What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song ! 


Divina  Commedia.  59 


III. 

T    ENTER,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  long  aisles,  O  poet  saturnine ! 

And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace  with 
thine. 

The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  perfume ; 
The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 

For  thee  to  pass ;  the  votive  tapers  shine ; 

Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves  of 
pine 

The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to  tomb. 


60  Divina  Commedia. 

* 
From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 

Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below ; 
And  then  a  voice  celestial,  that  begins 

With  the  pathetic  words,  "  Although  your  sins 
As  scarlet  be,"  and  ends  with  "as  the  snow." 


Divina  Commedia.  61 


IV. 

T    LIFT  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 
With  forms  of  saints  and  holy  men  who  died, 
Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified  ; 
And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  displays 

Christ's  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  roundelays, 
With  splendor  upon  splendor  multiplied  ; 
And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 
No  more  rebukes,  but  smiles  her  words  of 
praise. 


62  Divina  Commedia. 

And  then  the  organ  sounds,  and  unseen  choirs 
Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  ~of  peace  and  love, 
And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost  ; 

And  the  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 

O'er  all  the  house-tops  and  through  heaven 

above 
Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host ! 


Divina  Commedia.  63 


V. 

S~\   STAR  of  morning  and  of  liberty  ! 

O  bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor  shines 
Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be! 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
.Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy ! 


64  Divina  Commedia. 

Thy  fame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the  heights, 
Through   all   the    nations,    and    a    sound    is 

heard, 

As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 
Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 

In   their  own    language    hear  thy  wondrous 

word, 
And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 


NOEL 


ENVOYE  A  M.  AGASSIZ,  LA  VEILLE  DE  NOLL  1864,  AVEC  UN 

PANIER   DE   VINS   DIVERS. 


L'Academie  en  respect, 
Nonobstant  1'incorrection, 
A  la  faveur  du  sujet, 

Ture-lure, 

N'y  fera  point  de  rature ; 
Noel !  ture-lure-lure. 

GUI-BAR6ZAI. 


Q 


NOEL. 

UAND  les  astres  de  Noel 
Brillaient,  palpitaient  au  ciel, 
Six  gaillards,  et  chacun  ivre, 
Chantaient  gaiment  dans  le  givre, 

"Bons  amis 
Aliens  done  chez  Agassiz  ! " 


68  •  Noel. 

Ces  illustres  Pelerins 
D'Outre-Mer  adroits  et  fins, 
Se  donnant  des  airs  de  pretre, 
A  1'envi  se  vantaient  d'etre 

"  Bons  amis 
De  Jean  Rudolphe  Agassiz ! " 

CEil-de-Perdrix,  grand  farceur, 
Sans  reproche  et  sans  pudeur, 
Dans  son  patois  de  Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait  comme  un  ivrogne, 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  danse  chez  Agassiz ! " 


Noel.  69 

Verzenay  le  Champenois, 
Bon  Frangais,  point  New-Yorquois, 
Mais  des  environs  d'Avize, 
Fredonne  a  mainte  reprise, 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  chant^  chez  Agassiz!" 

A  cote  marchait  un  vieux 
Hidalgo,  mais  non  mousseux ; 
Dans  le  temps  de  Charlemagne 
Fut  son  pere  Grand  d'Espagne ! 

"Bons  amis 
J'ai  dine  chez  Agassiz ! " 


70  Noel.  - 

Derriere  eux  un  Bordelais, 
Gascon,  s'il  en  fut  jamais, 
Parfume  de  poesie 
Riait,  chantait,  plein  de  vie, 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  soupe  chez  Agassiz  !  " 


Avec  ce  beau  cadet,  roux, 
Bras  dessus  et  bras  dessous, 
Mine  altiere  et  couleur  terne, 
Vint  le  Sire  de  Sauterne  ; 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  couche  chez  Agassiz  !  " 


Noel.  71 

Mais  le  dernier  de  ces  preux, 
Etait  un  pauvre  Chartreux, 
Qui  disait,  d'un  ton  robuste, 
"  Benedictions  sur  le  Juste ! 

Bons  amis 
Benissons  Pere  Agassiz  ! " 

Us  arrivent  trois  a  trois, 
Montent  1'escalier  de  bois 
Clopin-clopant !  quel  gendarme 
Peut  permettre  ce  vacarme, 

Bons  amis, 
A  la  porte  d'Agassiz ! 


Noel. 

"  Ouvrez  done,  mon  bon  Seigneur, 
Ouvrez  vite  et  n'ayez  peur  ; 
Ouvrez,  ouvrez,  car  nous  sommes 
Gens  de  bien  et  gentilshommes, 

Bons  amis 
De  la  famille  Agassiz ! " 

Chut,  ganaches  !  taisez-vous  ! 
C'en  est  trop  de  vos  glouglous  ; 
Epargnez  aux  Philosophes 
Vos  abominables  strophes ! 

Bons  amis, 
Respectez  mon  Agassiz ! 


^OT^^^v 

£tyAfawfi£*w*v 

fiA'^SS^A^Ai^^Aun 


mimimim 

mmMfa^W"™m 


A  *  ~  A  ^ 


tti!iS$fa 


r&%$fci' " 


*~          A  ~*.          ArY          **•     '      -~   rv    '*         -    .-         n   - 

A/V~  *        r\    '  ~V.AAjk^  -   ^     AA;A/ 

*R^ft^^^^,AA.  ^'"^ A A:': r-xX'^ "  ^ifi' 

rwinPiilS      ^ 

isg = |  -:  w^MM^mm 


•-•  ";  -  -^.ft« 

ISftll^fc4 


M  i  A  /  A  /^  A         A    •     A  •      ^  '  " 


®;iP 


